[miercuri]

Clopotul de sticla (The Bell Jar) [1963], de Sylvia Plath


Mi-a trecut prin cap la un moment dat intrebarea incitanta: cum ar fi sa fie pe lume un "De veghe in lanul de secara" la feminin ?! Nu, nu ma refer la porcarii gen Bridget Jones sau mai stiu eu ce. Ci la o fata inteligenta, amuzanta si singura vs. The Life. Ei bine, citind The Bell Jar - unicul roman al poetei Sylvia Plath (care s-a sinucis intr-o dimineata in apartamentul ei neincalzit din Londra, in mijlocul a ceea ce era atunci cea mai cumplita iarna din ultimii 100 de ani, la doar cateva luni de la aparitia romanului) am stiut ca era cartea pe care o asteptam. Dar comparatia cu Salinger se opreste aici. Pentru ca romanul Sylviei ajunge mult mai departe decat o facuse Catcher la vremea lui. E mult mai amar, mai gol, mai puternic, mai surprinzator, mai dureros de sincer. Te ameteste cu atmosfera lui boema, degajata, de la inceput, pentru ca apoi sa te puna la podea fara sa stii ce te-a lovit.
Cand ultimele cuvinte ale ultimei pagini s-au scurs in mine si nu mai urma decat o pagina alba, am simtit o impunsatura in inima, ca si cum m-as fi despartit pentru totdeauna de cineva drag. Si, sincer, nu-mi amintesc ultima oara cand o carte a avut acest gen de impact asupra mea. Ba chiar, in afara de Anna Karenina si Jane Eyre, nu stiu sa fi iubit vreo eroina mai mult ca pe Esther Greenwood.

10 / 10 (esential)

Oh, oh.
Inimioare.
Chiar azi am citit din "Birthday Letters" a lui Ted Hughes, sotu-so, poezia asta:

Red By Ted Hughes

Red was your colour.
If not red, then white. But red
Was what you wrapped around you.
Blood-red. Was it blood?
Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead?
Haematite to make immortal
The precious heirloom bones, the family bones.

When you had your way finally
Our room was red. A judgement chamber.
Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood
Patterned with darkenings, congealments.
The curtains -- ruby corduroy blood,
Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor.
The cushions the same. The same
Raw carmine along the window-seat.
A throbbing cell. Aztec altar -- temple.

Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail
As the skin on blood,
Salvias, that your father named you after,
Like blood lobbing from the gash,
And roses, the heart's last gouts,
Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.

Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood,
A lavish burgundy.
Your lips a dipped, deep crimson.

You revelled in red.
I felt it raw -- like crisp gauze edges
Of a stiffening wound. I could touch
The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.

Everything you painted you painted white
Then splashed it with roses, defeated it,
Leaned over it, dripping roses,
Weeping roses, and more roses,
Then sometimes, among them, a little blue
bird.

Blue was better for you. Blue was wings.
Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco
Folded your pregnancy
In crucible caresses.
Blue was your kindly spirit -- not a ghoul
But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful.

In the pit of red
You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness.

But the jewel you lost was blue.

si mi-am adus aminte de asta a ei:

Mad Girl's Love Song

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"